


And I Will Make Thee Beds Of Roses

by SofterSoftest



Series: And I Will Make Thee Beds Of Roses [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Batjokes, I know other things are going on in gotham, M/M, but I'm ignoring that in favor of this, during when this would be, falling in love feels like resting in a bed of roses and no I will not explain, valeyne - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25597546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SofterSoftest/pseuds/SofterSoftest
Summary: Peace reigns in Gotham following Jerome's escape from the diner. Bruce feels settled and disturbed in equal measure, sinking into the comfort this provides him. That is, until someone keeps sneaking bouquets of flowers into Wayne Manor.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Series: And I Will Make Thee Beds Of Roses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2107308
Comments: 41
Kudos: 184





	1. ONE

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neyiea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/gifts).



*

_ “And I will make thee beds of roses _

_ And a thousand fragrant posies / _

_ If these delights thy mind may move, _

_ Then live with me, and be my love.” _

_ The Passionate Shepherd to His Love _ by Christopher Marlowe

  
  


*

It’s the peace that disturbs Bruce the most.

After Jerome disappears from the diner, blistered and wide-eyed and laughing, he lays low. Days of uninterrupted calm settle over Gotham, brilliant and warm as a rising sun. No calamities surface to threaten the entire populace. No new faces go missing. No turf wars or gang shoot-outs spark the streets. No villains rise from grime and ash, intent on manipulating the masses to hurt innocent civilians. Days turn to weeks turn to months.

The calm reigns, and Bruce hates it.

He’s in the conservatory one sunny morning, having woken even before Alfred, to train his body. These days, he exercises more diligently than ever, pushing himself nearly to strain. He works until his muscles are close to tearing, and meditates afterwards far longer than usual, so sure that something big and bad and far more monstrous than he could fathom lurks around the corner, waiting for the right time to strike. Bruce trains and works and thinks and waits. The only thing he cannot seem to do is sleep, which is why he finds himself so ready to answer Jim’s call.

“Detective Gordon,” Bruce says on the very first ring, voice alert yet gruff from training. 

Even from that simple greeting, he must come across as eager. Too ready, as always, to be Gotham’s willing soldier. Bruce picks up the phone hoping for a revelation, for a use, and he is instantly disappointed by the way Jim Gordon greets him in return. Instead of an order or an update, he hears, “You can relax, Bruce.”

Responsibility strengthens Jim’s tone. Even through the distance, Bruce can guess the expression on his face - eyes narrowed with paternal concern, jaw tight, a frown pursing his mouth. Useless compassion. Already, Bruce knows what Jim will tell him, and disappointment makes him scowl as he towels the sweat from his chest.

“No updates. I was just calling to check in.” And then, when Bruce gives him only silence, “You know Jerome hasn’t been spotted in months, but we’re still trying our very best to find him. Take it easy for once.”

Bruce knows Jim doesn’t really trust his own advice. Good, kind, honorable Jim Gordon pretends as if he doesn’t know Bruce or how he reacts to situations like these. Jim cares for him. Jim wants him to rest and stay inside the Manor and recover. But to want these things is to think Bruce is a different person than he is. And Jim knows this, despite his wishful thinking.

“I can’t rest while he’s still loose in Gotham,” Bruce says, like a vow.

“Right,” Jim murmurs, and Bruce can tell that is exactly the response he expected. “‘Course we can’t expect you to take it easy, but we wish you would.”

Bruce hardly has a moment to wonder who might be discussing him - his mind supplies an image of Alfred and those strained, concerned looks he’s been giving him every morning- before Jim asks, “Were you up early training?”

Past Jim, past the static and distance, he can hear the sounds of Gotham waking up. The hiss of a bus pulling away from its stop. Traffic and the footfalls of passersby and faint warbles of pigeons. Bruce wonders if Jim has just turned away from one of Jerome’s potential hideouts empty-handed. Wonders if the vacancy had relieved or frightened Jim into checking on him, especially so early.

“I train everyday,” Bruce responds, soft with sentiment and sudden understanding. And then, because there is nothing left to say, “Thank you for the update.”

“Bruce,” Jim pleads, recognizing the coming goodbye before it can be delivered. “We know it’s suspicious. We know it. This quiet, it’s like - like things are going too well. Far too well.”

If Jim had told him Gotham was spiraling, he would have gone, right that moment. If Jim had told him there had been even a potential sighting of Jerome somewhere, sometime, he would go. Anything. Bruce would do anything for Gotham. This useless, boring stillness rattles him with its unfamiliarity. He is so used to chaos and constant danger that a moment without it feels alien and wrong and suspicious.

Three months feel even worse.

Of course, for Gotham, nothing is purely peaceful. Petty crime rises, then flattens to an average rate. Small thefts occur. In Gotham’s richest neighborhoods, there are still complaints of graffiti and trespassing and loitering. Though, nothing that threatens Gotham’s very existence. Nothing grandiose.

Bruce tries his very best to feel satisfied by this. He only admits to boredom right before attempting sleep when his thoughts inevitably wander to Jerome, and then, ashamed, reject him entirely. He is relieved by Gotham’s progress. He is. Yet there is a small, instinctive part of him that wants  _ more. _

“It’s certainly odd,” Jim concludes over the crunch of his footsteps on gravel. “But that doesn’t mean we need you getting worried over nothing.”

_ “Jerome Valeska isn’t nothing,” _ Bruce wants to remind him, yet he holds his tongue. It’s another moment where Jim wishes Bruce were slightly different than he is. More pliant and malleable, more easily taken to instruction or advice. 

“Thank you, Detective,” Bruce says instead, suddenly wishing this conversation were over. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He pockets his phone without another word, and heads towards the large glass doors. He had been training for a couple hours before Jim had called, and only in the past handful of minutes had sunlight started filling the skyline. Bruce is shaky and sweaty, in desperate need of a shower.

On the long, silent trek through the Manor, his thoughts cycle inevitably to Jerome. That lurch of unease rolls deep in his stomach again, prickling the hair on the back of his neck like a heavy stare. As Bruce walks, his earlier disappointment warps into familiar, compulsive duty. Just as Jim felt responsible for his wellbeing, Bruce feels responsible for Gotham’s. As though he would be at fault for whatever scheme Jerome creates because he has not been found.

Part of Bruce wants to find Jerome out of this commitment. To stop any potential tragedy before it had the chance to unfold.

Yet another, more subdued, part of him wishes to find Jerome out of fear. He had seen the way Jerome’s face had split and swollen and blistered after his uncle’s abuse, and a sick, worried part of Bruce wonders if perhaps the reason for his absence is something less sinister. When he cannot sleep, Bruce’s mind conjures cycling, morbid images of Jerome sick or hurting or maimed. Behind his eyes, he sees the skin at Jerome’s mouth growing grey and dewy with infection. He sees him huddled on the floor of one of the Narrows’ dirty, abandoned warehouses, mind spinning with fever.

Every night, that creeping anxiety finds him sleepless and troubled. Every night, he remembers how Jerome had looked him in the eyes, had said, soft with truth and pain,  _ “No one’s ever helped me before. Ever.”  _

To protect Gotham, he must find Jerome. 

To soothe his heart, he must find Jerome. 

Bruce dreams of the diner, some nights, when he finally drifts away. Dreams he finds Jerome hurt and blistered and shaking, pinned down by a circus lackey as his uncle laughs and laughs. The method varies, but their endings are always the same - armed with only his fists and venomous fury, Bruce hurts these men ruthlessly, feeling only vicious, carnal satisfaction. When he’s done there is blood between the lines of his palms, blood in his teeth and his eyes, and he is still aggrieved as the two dead men slump to the floor. 

Then, always after that, he takes Jerome into his arms. 

Some nights he kills him, too. Quick and merciful, over in a single second, in a heartbeat’s span. Other nights, Bruce stares Jerome in the eyes for far longer than necessary before fleeing. On the worst nights of all, Bruce sinks to his knees to hold him in a puddle of steaming soup. An assumption of what Jerome might have looked like as a child stares back at him. His face is freckled and fine and absent of scars. His wide eyes search Bruce’s with that familiar spark of mischief and affection. 

This is the rarest end to this particular dream, yet somehow it is always the most unnerving. Bruce wakes in a cold sweat each time, so sure that somewhere in his room there lurks a burnt, lonely little boy.

He awoke from that dream only a handful of hours ago, and still it looms in the back of his mind, a precursor to every waking thought. A subtext, an overtone. A persistent, unshakeable haunt.

His bedroom still smells of clean sheets and sleep. It’s cool and bright, his curtains parted. Golden dawn sifts in through the window panes. His bed is unmade, and Bruce eyes it longingly, cursing his inability to rest, when his eyes snag on an unfamiliar bloom of color.

His body reacts before his conscious mind. Bruce flinches away from the red rose on his bed, backtracking to the doorway, gaze swinging wildly. His very first thought is of Ivy. (And isn’t that a bit alarming too, Bruce thinks, how he sees flowers and expects danger. How he sees nearly anything unexpected and feels the immediate, unrelenting need to fight for his life. He might be strong and brave and good, but these villains have him trained like a dog.) It takes only a moment of concentration to see the note. He dives for it, fearing so many things all at once. He fears lives hang on his indecision, he fears the safety of Gothamites hinging on a time limit. Bruce grabs the note and nearly rips it two in his wild haste to open it.

_ EVERY HERO DESERVES FLOWERS _ , is written in messy, scratching capitals across the slip of paper.  _ MISS YOU DARLIN’. BE GOOD FOR ME. _

“Jerome,” Bruce breathes. Like a password, like an answered prayer.

His very first reaction is sweet relief. No longer can that hurt little boy haunt his dreams when the grown man remains alive enough to leave him notes. What follows is a mix of anticipation, curiosity, and deep concern. Bruce feels wired. Ready. As if he hadn’t spent the last several hours straining himself to weakness.

He takes the rose in hand, twirling it between his fingers. Out the window, he sees no one and nothing out of place. The lock is latched, the grounds are empty, the sky is golden and splitting with sunrise.

Bruce’s undisturbed peace fractures, and the world starts over.

*

Of course, he tells Jim Gordon.

The GCPD scour Wayne Manor for anything else Jerome might have left behind. After several laborious hours they come up empty-handed. Despite failing to find any clues or modes of entry, a certain liveliness returns to Jim’s face. His attitude shifts, his shoulders straighten with purpose. He even jokes with Bruce while they comb through his bedroom for the third time, “I think I jinxed us. Shoulda held my tongue.” 

A common cause builds between them again. Jerome is alive and well enough to climb through his window, and that means neither of them will rest until he is caught.

The officers take the rose and the note from Bruce, who feels somewhat empty without them. To him, they symbolized a coming reunion, a nagging worry somewhat soothed. Without them, Bruce feels unmoored. Directionless, and nearly as worried as before. 

That night, he stalks through the Narrows, the moon high and guiding, but he finds no traces of Jerome. With every silent step, the note stays printed behind his eyelids, scratchy capitals -  _ DARLIN’ _ . Bruce wonders if Jerome had laid down in his bed, waiting to be found. Wonders if he had relaxed. Wonders if he has new scars from the burns. By the end of the night, he is as empty-handed as the GCPD, though far more tortured because of it.

Selina even volunteers to help him the next evening, having taken one look at his conflicted, confused, sleep-deprived face and demanded to know what was eating him up so badly. They search high and low, scrounging through Gotham’s most rickety warehouses and abandoned places, finding nothing of any interest.

He returns home alone, frustrated, disappointed, on edge, and - 

A bouquet of daylilies rests on his bedside table. The blooms are already starting to open as the night fades to early morning, and Bruce can see into the papery, orange shell of it, curling softly outwards. They rest inside a scuffed brown beer bottle, a crack in the side slowly dripping water. He spends the next hour searching his bedroom, and finds no poisons, no threats, no latent traps to harm him. Not even a note, this time. Simply a bouquet, sweet as honey. 

Still, that lingering frustration mounts inside him. Bruce goes to his window, debating unlocking it. He wants to see Jerome for himself. To hear his voice and make sure he’s safe and demand to know why he insists on sending him bouquets of flowers. Bruce glances to the daylilies and feels his heart twinge, remembering the wistful, pained way Jerome had crooned,  _ “My hero.” _

Without hesitation, or enough time to backtrack, Bruce grabs a pen and paper from his desk and begins to write.

**_You didn’t deserve what happened at the diner,_** he writes. **_There’s no need to repay me with flowers. Or forced entry._**

Although it is straight to the point, he hesitates before folding the note. His pen flags, then rises, then flags again. Bruce feels as if he has too much to say, now. As if his confusing, dangerous sentiment might reveal itself to him the longer he writes, and at the very end he would sum up exactly how he feels for Jerome Valeska. For the moment, though, with his heart in his throat and his chest aching with useless, strangled emotion, Bruce dips his pen to paper once more.

**_I’m glad you’re safe. Gotham’s been quiet without you around._ **

He leaves it at that, feeling strangely vulnerable. Bruce folds the note without looking at it and places it on his bedside table where he dreads and hopes in equal measure that Jerome finds it. He creeps down to his father's study, lights a small fire, and cocoons himself in many blankets upon the leather couch. The moon shines in bright through the windows and Bruce catches himself watching them, waiting for the telling twitch of a shadow or the squeaking hinge of a door. 

If he were just a bit more brutal, Bruce tells himself, he would wait for Jerome in the dark of his bedroom. Wait until the moment he snuck inside to lunge at him from behind and knock him to the ground. They would roll, and Bruce would demand answers between punches. He wonders what might follow. Wonders if Jerome would laugh and smile and croon sweet nothings through blood-wet lips. He wonders if Jerome would be happy to see him. Or relieved, maybe, the way Bruce feels relieved upon seeing him, whole and human and alive.

His thoughts shift and spiral and dim. He sinks deeper into the couch. He wonders - 

Bruce sleeps, and his dreams are all laughter and webs of blood and scars bumpy as braille under his fingers. He dreams of a linen-lined bed in the middle of a wildflower field, and a smiling villain tucked snug to his side. He lies flat on his back, Jerome’s face pressed to his throat, surrounded by flowers so tall they swallow the sky. 

He sleeps. He dreams -

*

He wakes. 

In the morning, he spots an enormous bouquet bigger than his head on the rug, right where he would put his feet upon his very first step. Even his hazy, dream-laden mind picks up on this instantly - Bruce kicks away his mess of blankets on reflex, and takes the bouquet into his arms as if holding a newborn. Again, no weapons or poisons or tricks of any kind work their way through the swells of blooms. Only blossoms of Queen Anne’s lace as large as his palms, trimmed in greenery. Only a tiny card tied around the stems with glittering, golden thread.

Bruce opens it with suppressed trepidation and even more deeply suppressed excitement.

The note is pale, simple cardstock. Inside, there is a small section of typewritten font spelling a delivery, a dedication -  **_TO R, FROM C_ ** \- yet Jerome had crossed it out with a thin red pen and written atop it in all capitals -  _ ONLY THE BEST FOR MY BOY. SEEYA SOON HANDSOME. _

Finding this gift, and the uninterrupted safety that follows it, disturbs Bruce nearly as much as it touches him. He feels watched over and cared for and doted on - a dysfunctional reaction, bone-deep and unavoidable.

Bruce pets the fragile flowers, wondering how long Jerome had crept through the Manor in search of him. He wonders if Jerome had watched him sleep, or if Bruce had been dreaming of him at the very same moment he was kneeling to place the flowers at his feet.

His rational mind kicks in the moment he thinks of Alfred. Bruce rushes down the stairs still in his pajamas, imagining all of the vile, violent things Jerome might have done, yet familiar humming stops him on the landing. Through the kitchen and down the hall comes the sound of static and swooping, crooning music, and the sizzling sounds of a hot breakfast. Beneath this, Alfred is murmuring along. It’s homey and golden and Bruce feels that moment pierce his already aching heart. He backtracks to his bedroom, finding it exactly as he left it. His eyes dart straight to the note, still on his bedside table, and feels disappointment until he steps a bit closer, and - 

Realizes it has been flipped to the back for an improvised reply.  _ SOMEBODY GOING SOFT ON ME? _

Bruce grins despite himself, thinking, _ I’m doomed. _

Later, once Bruce had struggled to keep his rushing sentiment in check and hidden the note, he treks downstairs to inform Alfred. Their routine is interrupted. The GCPD comes and takes away his bouquet. They check every possible entry and exit to the Manor, a little embarrassed, and with much groveling.

“We’re going away for awhile,” Alfred tells him over a very late breakfast once all is said and done. “Switzerland. Everything’s been peachy here for months and we could both use a getaway. And maybe I’ll get a smile out of you, if I’m lucky.” That melts Bruce’s heart and he goes, to give Alfred what he wants. Jim assures him of the police presence monitoring Gotham and Wayne Manor, and - he really has no reason not to. Even if that means no more notes from Jerome.

While away, they climb mountain hikes and visit deep lakes and tour little villages. They comb through the Alps and explore tall, damp castle ruins, and eat unfamiliar foods for the fun of it. Alfred, more relaxed, tells tall tales of his youth and fascinates him with memories of his parents and Bruce feels less alone, less disturbed, less everything. As far as getaways go, it’s relaxing and fun, but it’s not home. It’s not Gotham. 

Bruce, for his part, plays along very well. He gives Alfred plenty of smiles, even when unnecessary. He laughs. He is active and curious and eager. But, once nearly a month has passed, he’s ready to come back home. 

Mostly true to his word, he had avoided spending too much time on his phone checking on his city. As far as he could tell, there had been little calamity, which made him feel relieved most of all, and yet still that nagging worry creeps over him.

Throughout the journey home, Bruce grows increasingly restless and agitated. He paces between flights, he thinks himself dizzy, he cannot sleep. Even as Wayne Manor comes finally into view, Bruce is nearly sick with anticipation and dread. He rushes inside before Alfred, throwing open the front door. He races up the wide staircase, nearly tripping himself, until he reaches his bedroom, and -

Bruce opens the door to an ocean of color. 

Wild as stepping into a kaleidoscope, the room is a dizzying shock of flowers. They cascade in waves over the sill of his open window, to the floor, and brim the length of the room like a flood. Dandelions and buddleia speckle his desk. Tangles of coneflowers and irises and bright poppies litter the floor. There are fronds of ferns hanging from his curtain rods and long white lines of delphinium strung up beneath them as if to dry. Bruce even recognizes blooms from his mother’s carefully-curated gardens - puffs of hydrangeas the color of bruises swamp the ground, stems torn as if hand picked. Among the beautiful mess, he sees his mother’s foxgloves and poesies and zinnias and daisies. He even smells the lavender, surely buried beneath the piles and piles of flowers. It is magnificent and dramatic and far, far too much.

And then he spots the roses.

They tower and tumble across the bed in messy piles, scattering petals. No thorny stems protrude through the mountainous flurry of blushing pinks and deep red blossoms scattered velveteen across the bed. The roses are obviously, painfully intentional and seeing them makes Bruce’s knees go weak. In the back of his mind, through the shock and sentiment and awe, he tries to imagine the multitudes of trips Jerome must have taken into his bedroom, arms laden with flowers. He tries to picture Jerome trespassing into private gardens around Gotham to decide which blooms might be best to offer him, and feels only a near-hysteric edge of humor when he cannot. 

Bruce laughs softly to himself, heart aching like an empty stomach. Bewilderment still gnaws invasively at his mind and his instincts, promising a hidden threat someplace in his vast, gifted garden. If Jerome had wanted to hurt him, he would have used the first invasion as an opportunity, Bruce thinks. Something to break the ice, to set an intention. Not hundreds and hundreds of flowers so late into their strange stalemate.

Bruce, so accustomed to distance and tempered fondness from those who love him, cannot quite find the will to move. Surprise buzzes like adrenaline under his skin as he considers the amount of work and care necessary for something so pleasant and bizarre. In a twisted way, he feels nearly undeserving. Bruce could handle corrupt corporate plots or murderous villains hunting him down or even the wide, wild expanses of his personal grief, but a surprise or an elaborate plan meant only to please him feels like far more than he could ever earn. 

He is not used to being - his mind stumbles, scrambles, guesses -  _ Romanced? Surprised? Treated? _

Familiar footsteps climb the staircase at his back. Behind him, he hears Alfred coming down the hall and a strange, possessive urge overtakes him. Like a hiding child, he stumbles inside and slams the door.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred calls, alarmed, yet does not wrench his door open. 

“I’m fine,” Bruce says, proud of his own steady voice. “Just give me a moment.”

Later, he can tell Alfred how he was afraid for his safety. How he wanted to examine the room before inviting him or anyone else inside. Later, he promises himself. 

Later, they can take it all away. 

For now, he wades through the floral mess, the room rich with the smells of sweet petals and wilting greenery and rot, and carefully crawls atop his bed. He presses his face to soft rose blooms, feels them slide against his lips and his eyelids and the palms of his hands.

For now, he is indulgent. For now, he lets himself want and rest. He thinks of Jerome’s note -  _ Somebody going soft on me? _ \- and relaxes in the demonstration of affection given to him. It feels like surrender. Like a curse and its cure all in one. 

Bruce sinks into rose petals - red as his pulsing heart, red as the hollow of his throat, red as the backs of his eyelids.

He surrenders. He sleeps.

He wakes to rushed footsteps and Alfred’s faint voice warbling with alarm. Bruce raises his head to a hiss as his flowers are shoved aside by the swinging door. 

Alfred stands frozen in the hall, staring from the overwhelming swells of flowers to Bruce, sleepy-eyed and pale in a bed of roses.

“Phone call for you, Master B,” Alfred says, the words falling from his mouth in a shocked, distracted hush. “Detective Gordon’s found your man. Valeska.”

“Where is he?” Bruce croaks, spilling petals to the floor as he stumbles and stands.

“GCPD,” Alfred answers, finally looking Bruce in the face with an awed, uncomfortable, deeply disturbed expression. “Walked right in and demanded a chat with you. They’ve got him in an interview room, and I told them - ”

“We’re going,” Bruce decides, already stomping through the hills of drying flowers and shouldering past Alfred to the door. “Now. Get the car. We’re going.  _ Now _ .”

Bruce hurls himself down the stairs, trailing petals at his feet, his entire heart in his throat. Jerome’s first note, that scribbled  _ SEEYA SOON _ rattles in his mind, so prominent and promising he can nearly hear it.  _ SEEYA SOON, SEEYA SOON, SEEYA - _

_ Finally _ , Bruce thinks as he slides into the passenger seat, too sick with stress and excitement to keep his thoughts dishonest.  _ Finally _ .  _ Gotham’s been too quiet without you around. _

_ * _


	2. TWO

* * *

*

Later, behind a tall dark window, Jim Gordon tells him of Jerome’s arrival. 

Tells him how the man had walked in dressed to the nines in an outfit very similar to his ringleader getup - a red velvet jacket, pale trousers, long boots. Where the previous outfit had been more showy and restrictive, this one “looks like something out of a trashy romance rag,” as Jim had put it. 

Jerome sits straight-backed and calm in one of the GCPD’s many interrogation rooms. His hands rest in cuffs with long chains bolted to the table. He wears a flowing white shirt, sheer, with a deep cut to the neckline. Beyond the dark glass, Bruce can see the muscles of his chest and the pale fabric puddling beneath his wrists to the tabletop. Jerome’s hair is slicked back, yet coming undone in wispy waves to the side of his face. His eyes are focused as he taps erratically on his chains, if only to have some noise. 

Jim is right, Bruce realizes. With a gauzy shirt and his pale chest exposed and his sharp, expectant eyes, Jerome looks every bit of an idealized man. All masculine grace and intricate clothes and beauty.

Jerome looks like a dream come true. (And, Bruce supposes, with a spark of guilty wanting, that is exactly what he is.)

“So, he just - ” Bruce murmurs, still trying to understand what Jim had been explaining to him for the past several minutes. “He just walked in?”

“Yep,” Jim responds through a sigh, eyes still locked on Jerome through the one-way mirror. “He said  _ ‘How do you do, boys?’ _ and waltzed in here laughing. Said he had business with you. He was cuffed without a fight, too.”

“Any weapons?” Bruce examines the outfit, trying not to let his eyes linger longer than necessary. “Did you check the jacket?”

"Three times." Jim inclines his head towards the red velvet jacket slung across the back of Jerome's fold-out chair. "He took it off before we cuffed him to the table. Two officers other than me looked it over. It's harmless, as far as we could tell. Nothing on him, either."

Bruce watches Jim run an anxious hand across his jaw with another frustrated, perplexed sigh. "I can't figure him out. I doubt I ever really have." 

"I feel the same way," Bruce agrees, with more depth than necessary.

Jim gives him a side-eyed look, not quite suspicious, but cloying enough to make Bruce brace himself. 

“Any idea why he’d want to speak to you like this?”

“None,” Bruce lies. It comes far too easily for his comfort. “Besides the obvious.”

“Right,” Jim gives him another sharp look before turning away. He unholsters the gun at his hip and shrugs out of his own jacket, pushing them against Harvey’s chest for safekeeping. The two officers, along with Bruce and Alfred, had been occupying the little alcove off the interrogation room for the last several minutes, watching Jerome as if he might disappear at any second. They debated tactics and swapped plans, yet nothing seemed to ease the sense of instinctive fear they all shared.  _ Too easy, too quick, _ Jim had said. They were playing into Jerome’s wishes. Walking into a set trap willingly and waiting for the dreaded surprise when everything, finally, fell into place. Watching Jim prepare himself made Bruce feel powerless in a way he loathed more than anything. “I’m going in.”

“Good luck, Jim,” Harvey says, glancing warily through the glass to where Jerome fiddles with his chains. “You’ll need it.”

A dry, faux-annoyed look passes over Jim’s face before he turns his attention to Bruce, standing straight-backed and composed as a soldier waiting for orders. Looking into Jim’s weary, determined face makes conflicted guilt and duty clutch at Bruce’s heart.

“Come in when I give the say so. Not before then and not after. You might not be necessary. I want to avoid your involvement as much as possible. Got it?”

“I understand,” Bruce says as Jim pats him once on the shoulder, nods to the other two men, and exits. It takes nearly a minute for Jim to reappear at the entrance to Jerome’s room. He walks with his head high, his shoulders tense enough to threaten, his face stern. When he enters, it is with silence, letting Jerome have the first word.

“ _ There _ he is!” Jerome crows, leaning back in his seat as far as it will go. He stomps his boots on the floor in a mocking show of joy as Jim crosses the room and takes a seat. “You really know how to keep a man on his toes, Jimbo. And if  _ you’re  _ here, that must mean we finally have an  _ audience _ .”

“Is that all you ever want, Jerome? An audience?”

“I’m not surprised you’d think that, given my outstanding showmanship of the past. But, like so often, you’re nearly there, detective.” The false grin drops from Jerome’s face. “Just not quite.”

Jim scowls, a firm ruthlessness to his eyes Bruce has only seen directed at others. It's cold and cynical and deeply intimidating. Jim's mouth is a barely-repressed snarl, his hands laced atop the table in a parody of casual conversation. "Explain it to me, then. What do you want?"

"Easy," Jerome drawls, but his tone has hardened in response to Jim's obvious aggression. A wicked gleam sparks his eyes. "I already  _ told you _ . I want Bruce Wayne. That’s my one demand, Jim, and you’re. Not. Complying."

"Bruce is on his way." The cold, easy way Jim lies is nearly perfect, as if he was born for it.

Jerome, however, sees through this. He rolls his eyes dramatically around the interrogation room, leaning back in his chair like a pouting child. His gaze lingers across the mirror, searching, scrutinizing. Bruce's stomach drops at this, at this feeling of being seen, even hidden as he is.

In that moment, Bruce knows without question that he and Jerome are sharing the same thought - Jim would never begin this particular interrogation without Bruce present. He is too vital, too involved.

Too invested by far.

" _ Suuuure _ he is," Jerome mocks, tearing his eyes from the mirror with a glare. "As if I can't sense him on the other side of that mirror, Jim. Hang in there, Brucie, baby. I'll  _ seeya soon _ ."

"I’ve got to make sure I can put him in this room with you." Jim's glare sharpens, now tinged with disgust. "You’re going to have to give me some details before I let that happen."

"What, you’re afraid I’ll hurt him?  _ Upset  _ him?" Jerome glances at the mirror again, right where Bruce stands. If the glass disappeared, they would be eye to eye.

Bruce’s mind scrambles at this sudden connection -  _ he can’t know where I’m standing, he can’t _ \- but Jerome stares right into the mirror, right at him. He speaks with rare, calm candor. "Truly, honestly, cross my heart and hope to die  _ again _ , I would  _ never  _ hurt Bruce… Well. Not unless he asked me to."

"You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe you," Jim snaps, a twitch in his jaw, proof that Jerome was getting under his skin. Jim's devotion to Bruce was no secret, even among the villainous underbelly of Gotham's resident criminals. Bruce had heard them all - Captain James Gordon, Bruce Wayne's personal pocket cop, his bodyguard, his shield. "You died attempting to kill him. Do you remember that?"

Jerome waves the memory away with a little flick of his wrist, eyes coming back to Jim’s face. "'Course I remember. What’s a little blood between pals?"

Jim leans back, eyebrows rising as he shakes his head doubtfully. "Sure, but it seems to me like you want to be more than just pals."

Like a death sentence, the accusation hangs heavy in the air. Jerome's following grin blooms on his face as bright and vivid as anything in Bruce’s stolen garden. He doesn’t deny it, but he doesn’t speak at all. 

After a few moments of silence, Jim demands, "What’s with the flowers, Jerome?"

"No can do, detective. I want Bruce. Get me  _ Bruce _ , or I’ll walk." Jerome mirrors Jim's posture, leaning forward to puff out his chest and link his hands, chains rattling. It is one more mockery, and Jim reacts only with another subtle twitch of his jaw.

"You’re in GCPD custody. You can’t walk."

Jerome gives him a flat-faced look as if he expects a punchline, before laughing far too loud for the interrogation room to hold. Bruce winces as the speakers crackle above their heads. "Oookay, Jimbo. Sure."

For the next several minutes, Jim hurls questions at Jerome without success. Each one is different, a little more random or personal, and still he does not crack.  _ How did you break into Wayne Manor? What do the flowers mean? Why didn't you hurt Bruce? Why is he so important to you? _

For his part, Jerome only grows increasingly bored and agitated. He runs his fingers through his hair and fiddles with the flowing sleeves of his shirt. He rattles his chains to the tune of an old ballroom song, humming along as Jim questions him.

He reaches his limit when Jim looks ready to strike him.

“Listen,” Jerome interrupts through a heartless reading of his very first note, which sounds all wrong even to Bruce. “Let’s stop pretending Bruce isn’t right on the other side of that mirror waiting very patiently to speak to me. I’m getting real tired of repeating myself, Jim.  _ Give me Bruce _ .

Then, to the mirror, right in the eyes again. "Come on in, darlin’. I promise I won’t bite."

Despite Jim's instructions, Bruce starts towards the door. His impatience has been mounting for the last hour watching their dragging, useless interrogation. For all his skill as an officer, Jim didn't know Jerome. Didn't know how to set him off or surprise him or make him think. 

And Bruce -

Bruce is tired from his long journey home. The adrenaline rush of finding his flowers and racing to the GCPD is starting to fade, even if he doesn’t want it to. He stares Jerome in the eyes through the glass, feeling a mix of rising compulsion and fondness. He thinks of Jerome’s very first note -  _ MISS YOU, DARLIN _ ’ - and feels like it has been far, far too long since they have spoken in person, close enough to study. Close enough to touch.

“I’m going in,” Bruce declares, already moving. 

Beside him, Harvey grunts with shock and dissent. Alfred reaches for him, aghast, demanding, “Master Bruce - ?”

He is already opening the door, passing the threshold, and stepping into the long hall with grim, flustered determination. Bruce stalks away, towards Jerome’s interrogation room. He knows he should use this brief walk to plan his tactics, but his mind remains neutral, all body and action. The room comes into focus, and Bruce wrenches the door open, passing through another short hall, and one more door. Upon entry, he tries not to look at Jerome or the costume with the deep cut at his chest or the red velvet jacket slung at his back. 

He tries and he fails. His eyes flicker in Jerome’s direction and already, Bruce is weak at the knees, flustered, his heart racing. Jerome looks even more stunning up close. He looks real and solid in a way the two-way mirror had distorted - fantasy compared to the living man chained before him. Bruce takes a deep breath and crosses the room to stand at Jim’s side. 

“Oh baby,” Jerome croons happily. His eyes are weighted with devotion, roaming over Bruce like a physical touch. “You finally made it. Maybe if we’re lucky we can get rid of the company.”

Jim stands, smoothing down his tie, as if Bruce’s entrance were completely by plan. 

“Fine, Jerome. You get what you want this time. But I’ll be watching,” he warns them both before exiting the room.

“Well,  _ that  _ was easy,” Jerome says through a short laugh. Already, his entire posture has changed. He looks less angry, more excited, more alive. His hands have unlocked and they rest palm-down at the center of the table. Usually, Bruce would expect to see red, raw flesh at his wrists, proof of struggling against his handcuffs. Here, though, Jerome's hands are smooth and still, not even any bruising at his knuckles from past brawls. "Take a seat. You look like you could use it."

Bruce sits gratefully. In his mind, questions gather like a bouquet. He thinks of his bedroom floor swollen with flowers and his bed of roses, soft as silk. "I just got home from a long trip and opened my bedroom door to all your flowers."

Jerome claps his hands together in delight. His chains clash so harshly together, Bruce nearly expects them to spark. "You sure did! Tell me, how were the Alps? Didn't get frostbitten climbing any mountains, did ya? No, no, we couldn't have that."

Jerome shakes his head, an irrepressible smile still on his face. He doesn't give Bruce any time to answer, merely skates his fingers across the table even closer to his hands and asks quietly, "Did you like my garden?"

"First," Bruce says, too aware of the shrinking space between their hands. "First tell me what you're doing here. Why come marching into the GCPD without a fight? Why let yourself be taken into custody?"

"Hm. Business first. I don't normally like that, but hey, here we are.  _ Well _ , Bruce. Your confidence in my ability to free myself from this place is heartwarming.  _ Let myself be taken into custody.  _ Nothing like boring ol' Jim. But he's not my favorite, is he? He's nothing like you." Jerome's fingers skim closer. The chains scrape behind his wrists, dragging uncomfortably loud across the steel table.

They're so close if Bruce extended a single finger they'd be touching. Jerome has nearly reached the end of his line and seeing it makes Bruce wonder how painfully far he would strain himself to brush one of Bruce's fingertips. 

"Jerome," Bruce sighs, resisting the urge to rub his heavy eyes. "Please. Give me something."

"Anything," he replies with immediate sincerity. His fingers tap against the table but don't dare to inch any closer. "Anything at all. To be fair, I thought you'd have figured it out. You really must be sleepy, huh? What keeps you up, baby? Bad guys? Bumps in the night?"

Bruce shakes his head. Part of him wants to be honest. Wants to tell Jerome that the reason for his sleepless nights would be worrying for him. For his health and safety and restraint. For his return. For his affection. Another, more rational and aware part of him, knows this would come with many uncomfortable consequences, especially from the men behind the mirror.

"Alright, we can scrap that conversation for another time. I can tell you're, uh - " Jerome jerks his head towards the mirror knowingly, his eyes never leaving Bruce's. "Not interested in discussing that quite yet. Anyway. I picked here for our little meeting because I didn't want you thinking I was gonna," a wave of a hand, as if he could hardly fathom the appropriate words. " _ Hurt _ ya. Or try to kill you. Here, you've got your buddies watching your back, and I've got these pretty little things."

The chains rattle and scrape as Jerome twists his wrists demonstratively. On reflex, Bruce's eyes find the hinges of his cuffs, still snapped firmly into place. "I wanted to talk to you, Bruce. How did you like my garden? I know you must have loved - "

"So you're only here because you want to be?"

"Bingo!" Jerome points a winning finger his way. "You got it."

"Is this why you haven't been terrifying Gotham?” Bruce asks. Uncomfortable awareness lingers in the back of his mind, hovering over his shoulder like an approaching epiphany. “You want to get my attention?"

"It's always been to get your attention, Bruce.” No lies betray the sincerity in Jerome’s voice. “All of it. Everything."

Despite the lack of dishonesty, it does not feel fully true. This incongruence bothered him even before Jerome started leaving him the flowers, back when he couldn't sleep without imagining nasty burns and infections and a slowly failing heart. 

"But that's not true. You tried to kill me before your death and then again in the maze of mirrors. Don't you remember? You want Gotham in chaos. You want me dead, Jerome." Saying it aloud hurts more than he would have expected. Heartache, sudden and fierce, makes his throat feel swollen as if he's about to cry. Bruce thinks fondly of home, of his bed of roses, and wishes he were sleeping now as soundly as Jerome's gift had allowed. 

"Water under the bridge, sweetheart. I hadn't quite, uh, thawed, lets say."

"And now that you're thawed?" Bruce asks, heart hammering painfully in his chest. "Now how do you feel for me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Jerome asks softly. There's vulnerability in his eyes now, that same openness Bruce had witnessed at the diner. Sick and painful and full of truth. Seeing it again makes his entire body sing and spark with emotion. "I'm in love with you. I love you, Bruce. Duh."

Humiliatingly, a blush swamps his face. Tired, frustrated, confused tears prick his eyes. Bruce wishes he could rest. Bruce wishes Jerome could love him with any nobility. Bruce wishes he could be allowed to return the sentiment, under correct circumstances, with approval from the people around him. Bruce also wishes for none of that, wanting Jerome just as he is. Conflicted and intimidated by the depth of Jerome's emotion, Bruce says nothing.

"I woke up," Jerome says very softly, fingers creeping ever closer. "And my very first thought was of you. Only you, and getting closer to you. I wanted you even then, Bruce. Even before, probably, but I can't remember much  _ before _ , anyway."

"Something went wrong when you thawed, then," Bruce explains, even as he hates himself for it. "We were never… lovers. Only - "  _ Enemies _ sits at the back of his teeth, ready and true, but Bruce hesitates. He wonders then if his obsession and duty and passion towards Jerome had been romantic even before. Before every sleepless night, before the diner, before Jerome's resurrection. It is too exhausting to consider, so instead he tries to settle on a descriptor less severe. "Only…"

_ Rivals. Adversaries _ .  _ Bitter, twisted enemies. _ He does not know what to say. The moment lengthens and fractures and Bruce feels his resolve disappearing like water through cupped hands.

"Hey," Jerome mutters. He reaches the very end of his chain, stretching his fingers towards Bruce's as far as they'll go, straining at the cuffs so hard his skin turns white. "I get it, Bruce. I understand. It's okay."

Bruce makes a decision, instant and reckless as ever. He reaches out, gripping Jerome's hands hard. They're cold, rough with callouses and scars, and they melt like putty between his fingers. Jerome gives him a grin more brilliant and stunning than upon his entrance.

Almost immediately, Jim's voice crackles through the speakers. "No touching, Jerome. Let him go, Bruce."

Jerome's head whips towards the mirror with impressive speed.  _ "Shut. Up." _

His name scratches from the speaker. "Bruce?"

"Shut up," Bruce responds flatly, causing Jerome to erupt into a mess of laughter.

"You tell 'em, baby," he forces. "You're funny, Bruce. Which is surprising because you don't  _ look _ like you'd be funny. Oh! That reminds me."

Jerome's hands go from relaxed to alive between Bruce's, gripping him tight as if he expected someone to march through the door and pry them apart. "The note you left for me, Bruce. It was adorable. You're so sweet, aren't you? You just don't want anyone to know it.”

Jim hangs up the receiver audibly, the speaker shrieking once, sharply, before cutting. Bruce fights the urge to wince, knowing that beyond the glass, Alfred is being questioned about leaving a note for Jerome to find in return. He can imagine Alfred’s face, confused and shocked through the sting of his betrayal. 

But then Bruce looks at Jerome, sees the small but genuine truth to his words, and knows that he would write it again, would write it longer, if he could. 

“I’m glad you liked it,” Bruce says softly. “It was true. You didn’t have to bring me all those flowers.”

Jerome smiles again and his hands twitch in Bruce’s as if remembering his horde of flowers makes him want to jump into action. It’s endearing in an instant, helpless way. 

_ Maybe I am going a little soft on you _ , Bruce thinks.

“What did you do with my notes?”

“They took them,” Bruce responds, trying not to sound hurt. “The officers.”

Immediately, Jerome glowers at the mirror. “Well  _ that’s  _ not very nice. Is it?”

“I wish I could have kept them,” Bruce admits, if only to feel the startled twitch of Jerome’s fingertips.

“I know, babydoll. I know. But I’ll write you more. I’ll write them all. As many as you want, until you get sick of me, and then even more.”

It’s a promise of continued devotion, of continued affection, and Bruce is weak to it. His shoulders relax at that, and he wonders if Jerome can feel the way the muscles in his palms unwind just slightly.

The promise of a companion. Of someone paying attention to him. Adoring him. Seeing him. Seeing the worst of him and leaning forward instead of away. He is simply too human, too enamored, to resist.

“Please do.” 

Jerome tilts his head this way and that, examining Bruce as if just seeing him. Bruce braces himself, so many knowing things Jerome could say rising in his mind, but he is spared.

“I know I asked about how you liked your little garden, but, uh,” Jerome eyes his face with a pleased smirk, all gloating and charm and success. “Look behind your ear, my lovely volunteer, and I think you’ll find a surprise just for you!”

Alarm bells, instantly rejected, ring in the back of Bruce’s mind. He pulls his hand away from Jerome’s softly and brings it to his ear closest to the mirror. His fingers brush soft silk, and a single rose petal tumbles into his palm.

Of course. Bruce examines it, feeling embarrassed and caught. Jerome tips his hand, palm-up and Bruce places it there gently. He closes his fist, crushing the little petal, yet the joyous, smug expression doesn’t fade. 

“You liked it,” Jerome murmurs through a smirk. His eyes are shining with reward and the glowing, personal satisfaction that follows long, hard work. “You liked your bed of roses.”

“I… did. I loved the whole garden,” Bruce admits, unwilling to break the candor of the moment. He remembers opening his bedroom door and feeling as if, surely, he wasn’t worth all this work, all this effort. None of the dedication Jerome offers him feels deserved, yet Bruce desires it anyway, desires his room cramped with dying flowers, more than he desires the will to push him away.

Jerome perks up at that. From beyond the mirror, there comes a noise of some kind, and Bruce imagines Jim or Alfred smacking the closest object in frustration. He cannot find it within himself to care.

“Every flower I could find, just for you,” Jerome murmurs with seriousness easily mistaken for a vow. “Only the best for my boy.”

_ My boy. _ Bruce blushes at that, uncomfortably hot and telling, pleased to belong to Jerome enough that he would say it aloud, with men who hate him standing right beyond the door. It feels like staking a claim, and Bruce would not mind being possessed. 

He admits, “I loved the roses best.”

Jerome leans forward with metered, careful movement, as if about to share a secret.

“I’ll lay you down in a bed of roses someday, Bruce,” he promises. His eyes, dark and striking, never wavering. “I’ll  _ love  _ you. I’ll  _ fuck  _ you. I’ll do anything and everything you want. Just don’t turn me away.”

_ Never _ , Bruce thinks, even as Jerome’s hands slip gently from his. He remembers the conflicted feeling of leaving his bedroom window unlocked, the yearning, the shame.  _ Not anymore. _

Lovesick and exhausted as he is, Bruce hardly notices the exposition of Jerome’s escape plan before it is too late. Twin scrapes of metal on metal echo in the interrogation room. Jerome stands calm and still as a statue, the overhead light wearing into the sides of his face like a worn coin. Towering over Bruce, he looks even more radiant. Even more a caricature of romance and beauty, with the light shining through his hair and the empty handcuffs jawing open on the tabletop, miraculous, magic. 

_ Jerome Valeska is an unstoppable force _ , Bruce realizes, feeling himself stir. He stands only a moment after Jerome, and already he is too far late.

Already, Jerome has reached into the long sleeves of his shirt to withdraw two very different items. In his left hand, he offers Bruce a red rose. It is creased from its concealment, its stem thick with thorns, and already dripping petals.

In his right hand, he holds a metal cylinder, no larger than a pen, thumb hovering over a small black button at the top. Seeing it makes trepidation warp in Bruce’s gut, no longer sick with sentiment.

“Jerome...” Bruce says in warning. Behind the mirror, there are several shouts of alarm, and the scuffling of a door being wrenched open. Acting on instinct, Bruce lunges across the table, grabbing Jerome by the sleeves. He does not know what he intends to do - if he wants to force Jerome to stay to face justice, or to face  _ him _ . To demonstrate. To explain. To make Bruce believe, with utmost certainty, that he is loved.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Jerome hisses, breath ragged with adrenaline. “I’ll visit soon. Be a doll while I’m gone, won’t you?”

Outside, there is a rumble of footsteps. His thumb twitches over the button, a countdown. 

If Jerome is going to leave, Bruce decides, he is going to offer him something. Something far better than a scribbled note in the early hours of the morning, or a held hand and an admission of pleasure at his gifted garden.

He’s going to make himself irresistible to part from, impossible to ignore. 

“If you’re in love with me,” Bruce says, yanking on Jerome’s shirt, “then prove it.”

Without time to debate, Bruce surges forward and slams their mouths together. Jerome leans into the kiss immediately, hungrily, dropping the rose to the table to wind his free hand into Bruce’s curls. The motion is tangling and powerful, desperate in a way Bruce has never before experienced. Passion was not familiar to him - kissing various faceless, nameless girls had been boring, repetitive, predictable. Then, it had been all fumbling guesswork and shy, insecure overthinking. Tactless brushes of teeth and tongue.

Now, however, his arms are full of Jerome, overwhelmed by Jerome. The feeling of his strong hand in his hair and his firm mouth and the obvious, confident  _ wanting  _ is almost too much to handle. For a handful of moments, they stand suspended in time, suspended between one consequence and the next. With an empty set of handcuffs and a wilting rose between them, and a long, messy, bloody history at their backs, Bruce feels himself surrendering to the irresistible charm of Jerome Valeska as if their mutual attraction were inevitable and predestined and so right it hurt.

Bruce wanted to kiss Jerome as much as he could, and never stop. He wanted their bodies entwined, wanted a large bed in the sunshine, wanted rose petals between their fingers and in their hair, and Jerome’s promise of a bed of roses coming true. Daydreams and fantasies collect in his body, building and growing, until Bruce feels saturated and lost.

He tilts his chin, letting his hands slide up muscled forearms, wanting, wanting -

Jerome pulls away with a regrettable sigh.

“You really do want me,” he says, soft and awed. Bruce feels the words against his lips, nearly as gentle as the sentiment. 

“Yes,” Bruce murmurs, flinching apart when Jim Gordon throws open the door, gun in his hand, shouting at them both. “Jim!  _ Wait _ , he’s not going to - ”

But Jerome is already stepping away from the table, holding up his hands in mock surrender. None of his earlier tenderness remains. There is only his gash of a mouth grinning with the thrill of coming victory, his eyes on Bruce sparkling and vividly alive.

“Good talk, Bruce.” Jerome winks at him, presses his button, and the GCPD goes dark.

By the time the power returns, Bruce has managed to wrestle the gun from Jim’s hands, strewing the bullets across the floor with mixed relief and disgust, and Jerome is long gone, not even his laughter lingering.

* * *

Alfred, for his part, remains willfully ignorant the entire drive home. He mumbles to himself as Bruce tries to fight sleep in the passenger seat, head nodding, half-listening. 

“Can’t believe he put his hands on you like that,” Alfred growls, sounding venomous enough to kill. Even in fury, he remains stoic and composed, yet the car jerks and thrums with speed as he races through Gotham’s backroads. “And you  _ let him touch you _ . You didn’t need to suffer that, Bruce, not for anyone. And  _ Gordon _ , how could he let him just  _ get away _ ? If that man hadn’t saved you so many times, I’d tear him apart, I would. I’d - ”

If he were in a slightly more passionate mood, Bruce might remind Alfred that he was the one who tugged Jerome into the kiss, but the moment passes, and Bruce lets that fiery shard of memory warm his chest, untarnished.

Alfred’s threats continue well into the night. They echo throughout the Manor as they enter, and up the wide staircase as they march, and throughout the spare bedroom he prepares  _ “as yours still looks like a damn botanical garden.” _

Bruce performs the motions of helping to make the bed. Meanwhile, in the forefront of his mind, he sees Jerome professing his devotion ( _ I love you, Bruce. Duh. _ ) mingling with the man from his dream - Jerome’s rough cheek pressed to his throat in a field of wildflowers. The visions meld and twist. He imagines Jerome in the flowing shirt, lying on a bed of silk sheets and rose petals, wind in his hair. He imagines presenting Jerome with a single rose of his own, and the amused, affectionate smile he might get in response.

Alfred leaves the bedroom without much fuss, repeating that he would be right next door if Bruce needed him.

The room is small and dark and empty of one particular comfort. Slow as revealing a precious secret, Bruce retrieves his rose from up his sleeve, smells it, and places it carefully on the bedside table. He opens up the drawer, finding a Wayne Enterprises pen and notepad, and scribbles, mind fading and failing and sputtering -  _ This time, give me a kiss before you go. _

He collapses into bed, knowing with anticipation instead of dread that Jerome will find him. If not tonight, the next. If not the next, then later still. Bruce stares at his drying rose (heart swelling with fresh, blossoming tenderness - ) until his eyes slide shut.

He relaxes.

He sleeps.

* * *

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my dear Neyiea - thank you for your patience and sweet support! Cheers to our cyclical giving & giving & giving. You're a gem. <3


End file.
